The Devil's Mistress Page 7

  She took a great, heaving breath.

  Marianne made a small grunt as if she disapproved of the noise. “Here we are again, dear. I told you, you had a lot to learn.”

  Isabella stared at the woman, clawing at the strap,

  “I came to inform you that the magistrate has arrived. Your trial will be in the morning. Before that savage in the hole, if I have my say. By midday, I suspect you both shall be swinging in front of the town parish.” While she had arranged her face into something resembling compassion, her tone was whimsical, as if she might be discussing plans for the feast. “It is a dreadful shame things had to get so ugly, but then, what did you expect? I told you Thomas was a survivor. He will be here long after your bones are dust. Long after the name Ashford has been wiped from the record. That will be inevitable, of course. We cannot have a mistress of the Devil as the daughter of the town founder, can we?”

  “I’m not…” Isabella sputtered.

  Marianne smiled broadly at this, touching the girl’s face with a gloved hand. “Of course you are, dear. How else could you have poisoned him? As well as taken over the soul of that poor lad with the wooden leg. I cannot imagine his terror at being so spellbound.”

  At the mention of Jacob, Isabella strained against the strap with all her might. She succeeded only in choking herself.

  “Everything all right, madam?” Sebastian Sands appeared in the entrance, his hands crossed behind his back.

  “Very well,” Marianne said. “Our arrangement is ended quite satisfactorily, Mister Sands. By Twelfth Night, I expect you shall be the owner of the Ashford house instead of its manager. I expect you shall wish to rename it.”

  “I expect I shall. Load of work to be done if I’m to turn a profit this year.”

  “Well, I’m sure you have a good start.”

  Isabella stared at the two of them. The fog which had been surrounding her father’s death cleared in a sudden, violent burst. It was Sands. Sands had killed her father, and Marianne had put him up to it. And what was the price of her father’s life? The promise of a title, and a trifle of coin.

  “You’ll burn for this,” Isabella said. “Do you hear me? I will expose you, you foul thing. I will tell everyone. I will—”

  The watchman wrenched the strap, closing her throat before she could utter a final curse.

  “I think not,” Marianne replied. Then, to the watchman, “Cut out her tongue.”

  The boy, who had been having a laugh at the girl’s expense, suddenly frowned. “The magistrate won’t like that.”

  “The magistrate should not like to hear of two buffoons who had a rousing go at a naked prisoner before her trial.” She inclined her head. “Cut. Out. Her. Tongue.”

  The older one looked at Marianne. “You don’t mind what happens to her after, do you Madam Huxley?”

  “This creature of the pit? Of course not, so long as she remains fit for trial.” Then, with a slight smile, “I imagine it will be quick.”

  The two men jerked her backward, and then a new set of fingers were in her mouth, these even greasier than Sloop’s. The burly watchman pried her jaw open while the young one fished for her tongue. In moments, he found it. “Hold still, lovely.”

  There was a knife in his hand, a long, steel blade as sharp as a razor…and then he was cutting, and she was in the throws of an agony more red and terrible than any she had ever known.

  He held up the pink remains for her to see, then tossed it aside like a dead fish. “Guess she can’t bite or talk now,” he said, and laughed again.

  As they pulled her back into the darkness of the stall, the world became blank. The last thing she remembered was Mister Sands and Madam Huxley strolling into the open air, discussing a battery of new changes Thomas had proposed for the mill.

  Chapter 16

  At first light she was clad in rags and dragged before the town square.

  The whole of Blackfriar had come to bear witness. There was Carla Peabottom, the serving maid at the tavern. Maribelle Smyth, she of the famous flower garden. Henry Morton, who owned the stall where Isabella had bought her clothes, and his infant daughter, Patricia. They were all present, sixty-odd souls who had heard tell of devilry in their quiet town, and who had come to see a hanging done.

  When the watchman first led her past the bend of the town parish, they were as silent as lambs. Then Dory Tuttle, a scrawny, balding woman, spat on Isabella as she passed. “Whore of the Devil!”

  The crowd erupted in a torrent of angry jeers. They were grabbing her, kicking her, spitting on her. Someone flung a head of rotten cabbage which flew across the road and hit her in the shoulder.

  Tiberius Sloop emerged from out of the throngs and stepped up to the gallows. With his flowing black robes and tall leather hat, he might have been an avenging angel descended from the sky. “Silence! You shall quiet yourselves or be removed.” As if by divine command, they quieted. “Bring her, Rufus.”

  The burly watchman shoved his way into the inner circle, pulling the mute prisoner behind him.

  Isabella’s hands were bound in front with a length of rope. Her clothes were in tatters. The evidence of her missing tongue lay painted in a red stain from chin to chest, lending her figure an almost ghoulish resemblance.

  “Is this hue and cry strictly necessary, Reverend?”

  Before the gallows sat a long wooden table with a series of chairs, in the center of which sat a diminutive man with a long, flowing wig, a purple coat, and a pair of Martin’s Margins upon his nose, through which he gazed upon the formal decree of Isabella’s indictment. His voice was a fragile, tinny thing, barely audible over the whispers of the crowd.

  “Are you saying the trial should be moved, sir?” the priest asked.

  “I am saying this is a simple murder trial. It should hardly require the presence of such a contingent,” he finished, looking up from the paper.

  Sloop gazed over the mob which, like himself, was growing more agitated by the moment. “I dare say we shall not deprive the town of justice.”

  There was another moment of silence, and then a shout from the back: “Burn her!”

  The cry was taken up by half a dozen more, and then they were yelling and shoving and tossing refuse again.

  “Enough,” Sloop shouted, though his thin smile revealed a curt and subtle pleasure at so riling the people. “Mister Beauchamp, sir. I do believe it unfair to remove the accused when the future of the town depends upon her conviction. If she be innocent, let them see it with their own eyes, and if she be guilty, then let them see her ended.”

  “Mm,” the man said, in much the same manner as Isabella’s father. He put the scroll down and motioned to bring the girl forward. Upon seeing the state of her dress, he recoiled. “Good heavens. What happened to her?”

  “We had to remove her tongue,” the watchman said. “She was casting spells.”

  “Casting spells? Do you believe this nonsense?”

  The watchman frowned as if he hadn’t heard correctly.

  Sloop, however, remained keenly aware of the eyes upon him. “Sir, this is more than a murder trial. Perhaps if you would be so kind as to read the agreed upon charges?”

  The magistrate eyed the man a moment, then turned his attention to the scroll. “Lady Ashford, you are hereby accused of the murder of your father, one John Ashford of the town of Blackfriar.” He glanced at Sloop before continuing. “You are further charged with witchcraft, which I daresay is…quite a serious offense. It is said you consorted with the Devil, bewitched several young men, and…hm…used the seed stolen by an incubus to impregnate a young lady. Do you understand what I have said?”

  Isabella gazed on mutely.

  “Do you understand your very life is in the balance?” he asked, looking up.

  She opened her mouth, revealing the red, worm-like remains of her tongue.

  “I see.” The magistrate looked quickly down at his papers again. “Mister Sloop? Seei
ng as the head of the town council is no longer with us, I take it you have organized the witnesses?”

  “I have.”

  The man motioned with one hand. “Let us begin, then.”

  Sands was the first to approach the table. He was wearing what looked to be a formal, ten-year-old coat and breeches cut too high above the calf. His long, thinning hair was combed back from his head in an effort to look presentable. The sum of these was anything but.

  The magistrate picked up a large quill and dipped it into a bottle of ink. “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

  “Sebastian Oswald Sands. Worked for the deceased, I did.”

  “Could you tell us what happened two nights prior?”

  As the magistrate spoke, Sands turned to Isabella and leered. It was the same leer he adopted when he caught one of the house servants stealing from the kitchen, a look of glee in the coming reprisal. Only whatever he expected to find was not present. What he saw instead wiped the grin from his face as quickly as a blow.

  “Mister Sands?”

  The man’s head snapped back to the magistrate. “The accused came home after dinner at the Huxleys. Looked like she been in a row, she did. Dress all in a fluff. Came in as if she had a mission and went straight to her father.” He proceeded to tell them about the events leading up to the discovery of the corpse, the state of the body, and Isabella’s timely appearance. He concluded with the arrival of the watchmen and the discovery of the vial upon her person. “And that is what I saw, sir. That be why she’s a witch.”

  There was a moment of stillness in which the only sound was the magistrate’s quill scratching at the parchment. Then he stopped writing and the scratching continued. The old master of house looked to his left and seemed to notice Isabella staring at him, the fingers of one hand picking at a scab on her wrist.

  “That will be all, Mister Sands,” the magistrate said.

  The man stepped away, casting another uneasy glance at her before disappearing into the crowd.

  At the same time, there was a commotion near the back. Two figures, arm in arm, making their way through the throngs. It was her Thomas, leading the slave girl from their last encounter.

  “Your name, please?” the magistrate said. He was staring at the parchment.

  “Oh, bloody hell. We just met yesterday, man.”

  The magistrate looked up and cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Indeed, er…Mister Huxley. What is the meaning of this?”

  “My poor Winifred. She has been impregnated by this beast of the Devil, and she has come to bear witness.”

  “You know her testimony has no weight with the law, Mister Huxley?”

  Thomas rolled his eyes. “Why is it you think I am here? She is my property. I am to corroborate and explicate. I do think it relevant. It is quite a tale.”

  “Hm,” the magistrate said. Then, “Very well.”

  And what a tale it was. It began with stories of the girl’s dreams, nightmares, hauntings after sunset, in which the shadows of the house danced and spoke. Then, one night, she was visited by a many-horned giant with green skin and a bulge in his trousers as large as a man’s arm. He climbed into the bed with her, and lay with her, and violated her. In the morning, he was gone, though her belly had already begun to swell.

  The story was ludicrous, as full of holes as a moth-eaten blanket, but every time she began to stray or falter, Thomas was there to interject. So Winifred continued, weeping as she approached the end.

  “How did you know this, eh, creature was commanded by something other than itself?” the magistrate asked, the doubt plain upon his face.

  “He left something behind, sir. A token of his mistress.”

  “And?”

  Winifred looked to her left, and while Isabella wanted to hate her as much as the others, she could not. The poor girl was terrified, in a hell as ghastly as her own. When Isabella looked away, the slave girl retrieved a small, shiny object from her dress and set it on the table. The entire crowd strained and stared. It was Isabella’s ring.

  The ensuing uproar shook the very foundations of the gallows. Several members of the crowd pushed toward the inner circle, and the watchmen had to shove them back into place.

  The magistrate looked positively alarmed.

  “All right. ’Tis all right!” Sloop bellowed, moving once more to the front. “I know this is a great shock, but if any of you may corroborate these terrible deeds, please come forward.”

  Indeed, they could. One by one, the servants of the Ashford house lined up to bear witness. Then came the free staff of the Huxley house. Then came the people of the town, the wives and the merchants and the workers from the docks. The people Isabella had known and loved her entire life. None had a story as damning as poor Winifred, but they all testified to her character. Her strangeness.

  “Spends too much time in the wood, she does,” one of her father’s men said.

  “Always messing with potions and remedies in the kitchen,” said another.

  “I seen her talk to a bird, and the bird listened,” cried one of her neighbors. “I always known ’twas her familiar!”

  As the last of them filtered away, there was yet another great commotion. A figure pushing and shoving his way to the front. For the first time since the start of the proceedings, Isabella’s heart swelled. My servant boy. As he neared, she remembered her shame and disgrace at being so mangled, and looked at the ground.

  “Out of the way! Out of the way, I say!” Jacob emerged before the table, heaving and panting. “What is the meaning of this?”

  Sebastian Sands came pushing through behind him, looking even more flustered than the boy. He nodded to the magistrate. “My apologies, sir. The prisoner is a crafty one, he is.”

  Prisoner?

  It was true. Jacob’s wrists were bound. He bore bruises upon his neck and shoulders that bespoke a violent handling.

  “I demand to know what is happening here,” Jacob said.

  Sloop puffed up his chest. “This is a trial, Mister Reeds. The accused stands before you.”

  Jacob turned to Isabella, his young face made old with sorrow. If there had ever been any doubt as to how he felt for her, what he would do for her, it was gone in that moment. He looked ready to conquer the world in her name. “The accused? What is her crime? Refusing to marry that ridiculous sod?”

  “She is a witch,” Sloop said.

  “A witch? I have never heard such drivel. I dare you to present any such evi—”

  With the grace of a snake, Sands had withdrawn a knife from his coat. He slipped it under Jacob’s throat before the boy could finish. “Easy, lad. Let’s go back to the house, yeah?”

  There was a great susurration of voices. People in the crowd were jeering and whispering.

  Then the magistrate spoke, and the chatter ceased. “I daresay he has a point.”

  The priest spun upon one heel. “What?”

  “This is a murder trial, Mister Sloop. All I have heard so far is suspicion and rumor, and no matter the quantity, that is all it is.”

  Without warning, Rufus the watchman took the butt of his knife and hit Isabella on the back of the neck. She dropped to one knee with a cry.

  Jacob made to move, but Sands’s knife held him in place.

  “Casting spells again,” the watchman said. “I heard her whispering.”

  “She has probably gone mad with the state of this nonsense.” The magistrate looked like the presiding physician in an asylum overrun by the inmates. “Is there anyone here who can speak of the murder? The actual killing of Mister Ashford? If not, I shall put an end to this farce.”

  “I can speak to it.”

  A hush fell over the grounds.

  Standing before the table was the tall, pale figure of Marianne Huxley, ominously regal in a long, white dress. Her face had been rouged, her hair done in an older French style, with two tall peaks held by a wire frame upon her
head. The complete effect was dazzling, and there was not a face in the crowd not drawn to her.

  Marianne strode to the front of the table and looked airily about. Then Sloop took a chair from beside the magistrate and brought it to her. She sat.

  The magistrate grabbed his quill. “Will you please state your name for the record?”

  “Marianne Huxley. Mother of Thomas. Former mother-to-be of the accused.”

  “And you say you have, eh, evidence?”

  “I have a motive.” She glanced at her congregation. They were collectively enthralled. “I was present when she broke the engagement with my son, and I may speak to the reasons to it, if you shall grant me leave to do so.”

  When the magistrate realized she was waiting on him, he waved a hand. “You may continue.”

  Marianne smiled. “It was the day in question. I had invited Lady Ash…excuse me, I had invited the accused to dine with my son and I. Our cook prepared a lovely meal. But upon arrival, she marched straight into my study and told me she was finished with our family. I was quite shocked. I thought she was a lovely girl, and had no reason to suspect she held anything other than love for my son. So I asked her, ‘Why? Why would you do this to us?’” She looked at Isabella then, and unlike Mister Sands, what she saw there did not frighten her.

  “You must know my Thomas was so looking forward to the wedding,” she said, turning back to the magistrate. “I could not begin to fathom the heartbreak he would endure. So I pressed her, ‘Please, Isabella, you must tell me why.’ And do you know what she said? She said, heartlessly, that she held no love for him. She said the only reason she had agreed to the engagement was because she had designs upon our family fortune. Then I asked her, ‘If it is money you desire, why would you turn away now? The whole town knows we are expanding the mill. They know we are providing good work for honest men, and our fortune grows by the day.’” Marianne’s smile faded, and she took on a look of puzzlement. “What happened next stands out in my mind so clearly. The girl adopted this strange smile, and she said, ‘I have other plans now, Madam Huxley. I do not need you to be rich.’